


mirror, mirror

by thepensword



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: ???? ish, Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Mirrors, OH YEAH ALSO caleb backstory spoilers sdkfg whoops, Time Travel, astrid and eodwulf are kinda there peripherally, basically: teenage bren and now caleb share a glance between mirrors, but like, not enough to tag, not really - Freeform, so are the m9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 22:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17927243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepensword/pseuds/thepensword
Summary: There is a mirror in the back of the bookshop.





	mirror, mirror

**Author's Note:**

> what IS it with me and mirrors?

There is a mirror in the back of the bookshop.

It’s dusty, much like the rest of the shop, like the warm wood of the shelves and the rows and rows of books. It sits in a rusted metal frame that might once have been golden in nature, but is now so tarnished that it is impossible to tell. If one were to peer close, one might note the intricate carvings on the frame, the twisting leaves and slender runes, but few choose to look so closely. The mirror is nondescript in the corner of the bookshop, hidden by more fascinating things like books and maps and the calico cat who likes to nap on the desk and wind her way between the feet of the customers. 

It’s a boring sort of thing, that mirror. It’s old. It’s tarnished. And besides, the surface is warped; the reflection doesn’t look quite right, does it? It’s twisted, somehow. 

The calico calls for attention. The halfway interested gaze moves on.

And so on, and so on, and so on.

But the shopkeeper knows. And the mirror waits. And time goes by. 

 

* * *

 

 

(There is a mirror in the corner of the antiques shop.  _ Why are we here?  _ asks the handsome half-orc, and the tiefling girl laughs, and the red-headed man scans the shelves with intelligent eyes and a spell at his fingertips.)

 

* * *

 

 

The shopkeeper is a traitor.

That’s what they say, anyway.  _ He’s a traitor, that one. Always thought so. Something’s not right with him. See how he watches. See how his eyes are full of knowing.  _

The shopkeeper is a traitor, and the sentence for traitors is steep. He knows this, as he knows many things, as he knows about the secret ways a desperate fugitive may pass through a town, as he knows about back rooms and moments of kindness, as he knows about gentle rebellions. Perhaps he is a traitor, and perhaps he is not, but the shopkeeper merely smiles and greets kindly his executioner.

The calico stretches on the countertop. The dust motes float in the air.

 

* * *

 

 

Bren is sixteen and he is brilliant.

He knows this. His whole life people have told him so. Bren is bright, and intelligent, and so very good at magic. Even Master Ikithon agrees. It’s why he was chosen. It’s why he was trained, and refined, all those poor-village peasant-boy impurities filtered out and all the ragged edges sanded down. Bren is a weapon, sharp and efficient, burning hot with brilliance and flame. 

Bren’s job is simple: burn out the imperfections. Bren’s mission is simple: go to the shop, extract what information he can, terminate the old shopkeeper.

The bell over the door jingles softly when he enters. The old man looks up from behind the counter and smiles kindly. The calico yawns and turns piercing green eyes on Bren, who despite everything has always loved cats. His fingers urge to scratch beneath her chin, but he has a job to do. Focus.  _ Konzentrieren. _

Eodwulf holds the man still. Astrid leads the interrogation. And Bren? Bren weaves magic behind his eyes and strolls between shelves, looking for signs of dissidance between the books. A door leading to a secret meeting room, perhaps. Coded notes on slips of paper, maybe, or letters, or—

The mirror glints in the dim light of the bookshop. The mirror glows with the magic that spins from Bren’s fingers.

“Huh,” says Bren. “ _ Interessant. _ ”

He steps towards it, cautious in his movements. His training warns him not to look directly at it, but his curiosity gets the better of him, and Bren finds himself staring intently into the mirror, fingers brushing the tarnished and dusty frame and sparking immediately with the sensation of magic.

He should look away.

He doesn’t.

There’s something odd about his reflection. Something...twisted. Warped. The world tilts, and gleams, and the magic sparks and swells. There is a low hum in his ears and Bren nearly shouts for Astrid and Eodwulf, but he stops himself before he does.

The sensation fades. Everything is right again.

Except…

Bren looks at his reflection. The eyes—blue. The hair—red. It is right. It is him. It is so, so very wrong.

The hair—long. The eyes—sad. 

The man in the mirror is older by at least a decade, and so much dirtier. His jaw is lined with a scruffy beard and his face is smudged and his coat is all worn and patched and the scarf is in tatters and….and….

And it’s Bren. Undoubtedly, it is Bren. But he is looking back at Bren and he is afraid, and then he is sickened, and then he is sad.

“Bren,” says the man. His voice is in Bren’s ears, yes, but somehow it is also in his head. Not quite a sound. Not quite a thought. A reflection, a memory—no. Not quite a memory. 

“Who are you?” says Bren. The man shakes his head and Bren watches as he wraps his arms tight around his too-thin frame. The fingers, he notes, are bandaged. The coat-sleeves are frayed. 

“Oh, Bren,” sighs the man, and Bren thinks he has never heard anyone sound quite so sad before. “I am so sorry.”

“What? What are you talking about? Who are you? What is this?”

There is something brewing in the man’s eyes. Something dark. Something painful. His fingers open and close, open and close. He is on the verge of something, but Bren has no idea what. “Bren,” says the man. Thinks better of it. Starts again. “Bren, there is something you should—”

He stops. He reaches into his pocket, pulls forth a button. It’s blue, like his eyes, like Bren’s eyes, like the bluebells he used to delight in bringing home for his mother. Back when he was a peasant. Back before he became a weapon. The conflict brews in the man’s eyes, brews and brews and bubbles over, and the man’s shoulders settle. He sighs, a deep, sad thing, and meets Bren’s gaze with an inescapable intensity. 

“Bren,” he says. “One day, it will be alright.”

The calico brushes against Bren’s legs.

“Bren!” calls Astrid, from somewhere far away. Her voice is sharp. The mirror is empty.

Bren shakes his head and moves on.

 

* * *

 

 

(Caleb takes a shaky breath. And then another, and then another. He feels lightheaded. The button is bright in between his fingers, and so very blue. Nott gave it to him.

He has wanted one thing for so long. He has wanted only one thing. But not like this, he thinks. Not like this.

And besides—

Nott’s hand in his. Beau’s shoulder beneath his grasp. Jester’s laughter as she teases a blushing Fjord, as Yasha watches and pretends not to smile, as Caduceus brews tea, as Molly grins like the devil he is. 

—there are other things he wants, now.)

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hi i love caleb and his dumbass found family and im crying about them Always and baby bren makes me sad a lot
> 
> if you enjoyed, drop me a comment or visit my [tumblr](https://thepensword.tumblr.com)


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